


Divertissement

by Han_shot_first



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #dickoff2019, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble/Oneshot Collection, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-09-28 19:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Han_shot_first/pseuds/Han_shot_first
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots, largely unrelated to each other and (hopefully) staying within 500-1.5k words, as challenged by me to Griftings (unless we get carried away lol).Ratings vary per ficlet, but the entire series can be considered 'E' for safe searching purposes.Note: my erotic fiction will *never* feature an underage Arya. I have a very strict personal rule about that, and I will never break it. She will always be at a modern minimum age of consent (18 years old) in my erotic fiction, but usually she is much older than that, because that's just how I roll. #dealwithitWith the preliminaries over, let the #dickoff2019 begin!





	1. Le Jeune Homme et la Mort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Griftings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griftings/gifts).

They're like two dancers who sometime fall deeply into step with one another, but other times, she's soaring above him, and all he can do is watch her as she flips and turns and moves in ways he will never, ever be able to manage, not if he lives a thousand lifetimes and wears a million different masks. 

And she knows it. The slash of that victory is in her eyes, hidden in plain sight on the pale milkiness of her Northern skin. It lurks in the moonlit discs of her eyes and the stars of scars on her belly. He knows where they are, hidden as they are from his view. The pearls of her teeth flash in a smile. 

Her feet find the floor, landing with a light touch (her knees will feel it one day, he thinks viciously), but he's there waiting with the point of a blade and a smirk, and he thinks he's got her, but his hidden blade is now right...under...his...rib.......and she's openly smirking too. Laughing at him, at his sudden surprise.

When exactly did a lovely girl steal that from her Master?

They jump back, and she's ready to dance again, presenting her left side to him, a slimmer, smaller target. The blade is deadly in the extreme, her aim obscenely accurate. And he should _not be hard_. 

He turns, he quickly adjusts himself, and she pretends not to notice, because that's impolite, and there's still a tiny, smidgeon of Catelyn's daughter somewhere under the sweat and grime of her yellowing tunic. And she should _not be wet._

But she still slides a glance down, because she's interested to note that he adjusts to the left. Always to the left.

And she tilts her head, the blade dangling oh so interestingly around her lithe fingers.... playing.... and her tongue curls around the roof of her mouth, just once. He can see it peeking out of her lips, and he narrows his eyes. 

All play is vanishing from his gaze. He is Faceless once more. Inside, his teeth sink down to grind, oh so very, very imperceptibly in his mouth. He thinks, it's time to play with the God(dess) of Many Faces ---

They run towards each other ---

Clash ---

The flesh meets flesh meets teeth, lips, and their clothing meets the floor.

There, she cries, just once, as he lifts his mouth to a wet cunt, slipping a finger inside, then two, then three. Now, he answers back, and gives no quarter.

She hisses, kicking a bare foot at his shoulder and he pulls it to his mouth for a moment, punishing her a little, sucking on a few toes as she wails in impatience and disbelief that he's stopped paying attention to her poor, sopping core. 

He laughs, cruel and delighted, drawing the edge of a nail along the underside of her foot, and she wriggles. Impatient, she reaches down to take care of herself, but that will not do. He drops her foot, grabs both wrists in one powerful fist, and leans over her, trapping her arms above her. 

He snarls at her to behave, and when she makes to bite at him, he takes his leather belt from his trousers, and ties her wrists together and behind her back, just as she was so obviously begging him to do. She is happier now, and he feels like the god(dess) themself, powerful and old, and without asking, he lifts her legs back over his shoulders and thrusts his face back into her cunt, finding it as hot and drooly as before, welcoming him back with its heat and salty, tangy smell.

There you are, he says to her pearl, as he licks it gently at first, then suckles at it carefully, feeling Arya shake around his ears. Come out and play, he continues with great respect, as he laves it on one side, then the other, knowing she prefers the right side more than the left, and then using the very tip of his tongue to gently lift the pearl up and around, again and again. So beautiful you are, he continues to praise her clit with the flat of his tongue, so clever and wise to stay hidden and safe. But come now, and make my lovely girl shriek with pleasure. 

He gently slips two fingers along his tongue, holding the pearl in place between them, and continues his ministrations, listening to Arya's groans and enjoying her heaving hips as she rides his face more and more insistently.

Yes, he swirls into the pearl, gently pressing with his thumb just below the junction where the flesh met the mound. There you are, swelling up for me, he kisses and suckles gently. Get bigger, he commands roughly, suckling a little harder now. 

Arya wails higher somewhere above him, and he chuckles with appreciation.

Good, he says, and turns his fingers so the knuckles can work their calloused textures into her folds. Nearly there, he murmurs, then growls, and without warning, he begins to flick his fingers across the proud pearl, its glistening pink beauty the most glorious, perfect place he wants to be, forever.

At least, until he is inside her.

He turns his hand again then moves his fingers so the pads move across her pearl slowly, then faster, and faster still. He spits carefully onto her, just to add more glide onto his fingers, making her get wetter. Arya pants with wanton abandonment above him, her hips undulating wildly. He is muttering dirty words like _ yes, good girl, so good, look at your pink cunt, so wet and soft for me, _very softly and with unbridled joy now, seeing her hair spilled across the floor, all of her defences temporarily blown away, scattered to the Northern winds, and all of her desire on display, for him alone. It is intoxicating, and he wants to drink all of it down. 

"Please," she whines.

"Please _what_," he murmurs, reaching down to place his tongue on her clit, doing nothing else, just letting her writhing do all the work for him. She tastes like the sea and the salt of Lorath Bay, but he wants more. So much more.

"Please!" she shouts, unable to reach release, on the verge of pleasure, but unable to peak. Her hips move jerkily and wildly, but he just smiles, and puts his teeth on the edge of her plump red inner lips, sucks on it, heedless of the curly wet hair, then lets it go with a _pop_, filthy and bright, the only sound in a room that is filling with the smell of her arousal.

"Whom do you address, lovely girl?" he taunts, cruel and delighted. His thumbs go down to her hole, and he stretches her open. She's weeping so beautifully, and he's leaking onto the floor under her. She's halfway in his lap, and it would take very little to pull her upwards and slide the fat, swollen head into her---

She rears up suddenly, and the loss of her legs over his shoulders distract him just long enough to realise she has flipped onto her side, breathing hard. She is wrestling against the belt, screeching. Kicking her legs, moving away, keening and moaning.

Like a wild wolf, caught in a trap, Arya is suddenly done. Has he pushed her too hard? No safe word, but---

"Arya!" 

He's calling out, but when she turns towards him, her eyes are wild and pure white.

_Warg._

She snarls, and he tries not make any sudden movements. Is she with her wolf, on the other side of the Narrow Sea? An unnatural growl escapes her lips, and her teeth are bare, savage, and ready to rend prey. 

She has made it to her knees, but is almost on her face now, then back up, then back down. Struggling with the belt, trying to free her arms. Yipping and whining, making animal sounds. Thank the god(dess) they had discarded their clothes. She sees him, snarls at the room, looking around wildly.

He has to get to the belt. Free her---

He tries again.

"Girl. Lovely girl?"

Another growl, a snarl, then a whimper. She is trying to move her arms, and can't.

"...Nymeria?"

She pauses, and he holds his breath. Is it really the wolf in front of him? 

"A man will free the wolf, if a wolf will not attempt to kill a man, yes?" 

The girl (wolf?) does not make a sound or movement, and there is nothing to indicate that there is an _agreement_, but as there are no active attempts at killing him either, he takes it as a sign that he may attempt to approach.

His first movement is met with a growl, low and deep, and it is unnerving in the extreme to hear this from Arya's throat. Unnatural beyond words. Yet.... it is also inherently correct. How she can produce such a wolfish sound from human lungs and vocal chords is a mystery to him, but from her, it is entirely natural that it should come from her, and her alone.

He carefully, so carefully and slowly, reaches her side, on his hands and knees like a fellow beast. He releases her hands and arms from his belt, and the second she can feel her freedom, she is on him. Her arms and legs tackle him, pouncing him like prey, and her teeth are on his throat, mouth open as wide as necessary, precisely angled for the precious blood vessels at his throat.

She waits, and he waits.

Then, to his surprise, and perhaps to hers, he feels her move her hips down. 

His erection, though only somewhat hard now, begins to wake up as she starts to grind. Her arms tighten, and her teeth do not move from her position at his throat.

He should _not be getting hard_, but he is. Oh, he is.__

_ _Tentatively, his arms begin to reach up to touch her, and he hears a growl in the throat, but he takes another risk. He calls for his lovely girl, knowing she is there, and begins to gently caress the body above him._ _

_ _He croons to Arya Stark, and lets her, in all her warg glory, begin to grind and move upon him._ _

_ _He lets her take her time as she begins to dip herself onto his increasingly aching cock._ _

_ _She moves slowly, then as she takes him into herself, he hears her sigh, move back, and suddenly she's sitting upright. Her eyes are her own again._ _

_ _"Lovely girl," he purrs, huffing a breath as she clutches around him, her back arching. She moves to place her feet flat on the ground, the better to position herself, and she bounces harder on his cock, undulating against the spot she wants him to hit inside of herself._ _

_ _He grunts, grabs her hips, and responds by moving his hips _just so_ in counter to hers. The friction is exquisite, and he feels his shoulder and neck muscles tensing as he works himself in her, helping her towards her peak._ _

_ _She drops down and one of his hands leaves her hip to press a thumb against her clit, then move down a bit further, where she needs it, and press a little harder. She moans, pressing her forehead against his, and sweat drips from her chest against his. She licks his mouth, and then they are flipping over, her back against his chest, her chest against the floor, and her knees are _killing her now_, he thinks viciously._ _

_ _"If you say a word about doggie style," she pants._ _

_ _"Valar morghulis," he moans back, as he thrusts himself inside her again. "For the love of the gods, old and new, _come now_!" _ _

_ _He is fucking her hard now, and she is a storm of shrieks and wails with her forehead against the floor. He feels her cunt spasming, and she cries out that she is coming, coming, you Lorathi bastard, keep fucking me, finally, Seven fucking hells, and then he lets himself go, and everything goes white behind his eyes. He is aware of the slope of her back, the dimples above her ass, the curve of her hips, the darkness of her hair. He sees the red of the imprints his hands have left from gripping her so tight, and he is seized by the desire to bite her._ _

_ _So he does, leaning over, still coming in spurts into her still twitching cunt, her moans still penetrating the air and the floor beneath them, and he bites into her neck, hard._ _

_ _"Ow," she says, but he doesn't let go. He sucks into the bite._ _

_ _She finds the nearest brown-tan arm and bites him back, settling in for a good long suck in return._ _

_ _They enjoy their aftershocks for a few more moments before reluctantly decoupling._ _

_ _Lying on their backs, staring at the training room's gloomy ceiling, she grabs for the nearest trousers - and is pleased to find they are his. She wipes herself quickly before he can object. _ _

_ _"Valar dohaeris," she says smugly, and throws the soiled laundry at him._ _

_ _She's up and moving before he can ask her anything about the warging, Nymeria, or any of it. _ _

_ _He stares at her as she picks up her yellow tunic, puts it on, peeks out of the heavy door, and slips out._ _

_ _She always leaves him wanting more. _ _

_ _He stares at the bare room, and wonders again just what in the hells he was thinking when he gave the girl a coin all those years ago and told her to seek him out. He has never felt more unbalanced, never felt less Faceless in all his years as a Master in the House of Black and White._ _

_ _Something must be done._ _

_ _This cannot continue._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by the incomparable Rudolph Nureyev and Zizi Jeanmaire, dancing together to choreography by Roland Petit (Zizi's husband), in 1966.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDCNmD-dvq4)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING (suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation): the link above for the dance is not for the faint of heart - depending on how you read the ending of the dance, Nureyev's character is either released from his torment, or he is simply driven to suicide and it is a waste of life. You can watch the entire dance and skip the last few moments, if you wish to avoid that trigger.
> 
> "The main thing is dancing, and before it withers away from my body, I will keep dancing till the last moment, the last drop." Rudolph Nureyev, 1990, shortly before his death in 1993.


	2. Le Chat Noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to keep to my own rules. 2700+ words, aka, 80% over the maximum word count I myself challenged. *facepalm* Also, my French is rudimentary at best, so I welcome comments correcting it. Also, the Romanian. 
> 
> Setting: 1885, Le Chat Noir, 12 Rue Victor-Massé, Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most people know Le Chat Noir [because of this fella.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Chat_Noir#/media/File:Th%C3%A9ophile-Alexandre_Steinlen_-_Tourn%C3%A9e_du_Chat_Noir_de_Rodolphe_Salis_\(Tour_of_Rodolphe_Salis'_Chat_Noir\)_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg)
> 
> However, that was just a poster advertising a tour for Le Chat Noir, which arguably was the first modern caberet club in the world, opened by Rodolphe Salis (hence his name on the poster), on 18 November 1881 at 84 Boulevard de Rochechouart, Paris. The club was so popular that it outgrew its original premises and thus moved to 12 Rue Victor-Massé, Paris, in June 1885, which is where I set my fic.
> 
> The two wars I mention are the Aceh War (1873–1904) (Indonesian: Perang Aceh, also known as the Dutch War or the Infidel War) and the Mahdist War (1881–1899) (Arabic: الثورة المهدية ath-Thawra al-Mahdī). 
> 
> The effects of Dutch colonialism in Indonesia are still in effect. For example, Western New Guinea (also known as Papua) have been calling for independence. Their territories were transferred in 1962 from the Dutch to the UN, then to the Indonesian government, all without the native Papuans being involved. There's been unrest ever since, with protests culminating in recent weeks with violence and the embassy being torched.
> 
> The British participation in the Mahdist War is called the Sudan campaign...or some justly call it British colonialism. The Brits weren't kicked out of Sudan until 1956, but the effects as it has played out have hurt Sudan and South Sudan ever since. They are still struggling for peace, despite South Sudan gaining independence from Sudan in 2011.
> 
> I just wanted to mention this because although this is a light-hearted piece, and the wars are mentioned only briefly.... I very much need you all to realise that these are not pieces of history that are 'over' and 'done'. The wars still echo from the past into the present, and by choosing to put J&A into a real world scenario, I want to acknowledge that little bit of history and how it is affecting our world right now. If you don't know what's going on in Sudan and South Sudan, or what's happening to the Papuans, please take some time out later and have a look. It matters. Stay woke.

They said the nightclub was exclusive to _Les Hydropathes_: those who were afraid of water and could therefore only drink wine. The Impresario, whose face was considered kindly by all who knew him, merely snorted at the thin insult. If Paris would clean up its water supply, he would gladly serve it, but until then, wine was the least he could procure for his patrons.

His favourite agent wandered into the nightclub, looking tired and frazzled. His hair, normally neat, lightly oiled and parted to reveal his distinctive red and white strands, looked distinctly déshabillé, floating naturally and easily around his clean-shaven face. He wore a black silk three-piece lounge suit complete with a tail coat, trousers and waistcoat, together with a fine white shirt, its collar starched high with its tips pressed down into dainty wings. A white bow-tie completed the evening wear. With his hair in atypical disarray and a tophat twitching in one large hand, he presented an altogether roguish look, one that was always welcome at Le Chat Noir, but at odds with the man who prided himself on a nearly perverse code of _repressiveness_, which the man insisted was necessary to improve his already extraordinary talents as a spy.

‘Really, this ‘facelessness’ is almost _English_,’ the Impresario thought with disgust. The point of his club was to indulge in artistry with zeal and abandonment; it helped to conceal the clandestine activities of his world-wide spy network.

“Où est-elle?” his favourite agent murmured, looking around with nonchalance as though he was enquiring about their handsome spy in Aceh, adept at _katoey_ and thus imminently capable of observing the Dutch army’s latest troop movements. Or he could have been asking after their diminutive spy in Khartoum, who had recently returned with letters that provided solid proof of new British troop movements in Sudan. War was wrenching apart that ancient land.

But the Impresario knew of only one agent in his ranks who could ruffle his chief spy’s feathers so perfectly. Only one who could cause him to crack his mask of indifference like one of his most cherished caberet performers, a Roma singer and dancer whose limbs would stretch and bend until they popped, sometimes causing even the most stoic of audience members to gasp. And when they would, when her spine crackled, Amaya, the middle-aged woman with her dark, khol-rimmed knowing eyes, would lean further back still, letting them see over her collarbones, the barest whisper of the tips of her breasts, trapped in her flashy costume, and whisper, “Mă aplec ca să nu mă rup.”

And her audience would murmur and sigh in adoration, some even reaching out, wanting to touch her, to pet her, to ensure that she was real, this goddess of flesh and song. This beautiful woman who deigned to share her gifts to an unworthy and suddenly altogether shabby audience. And she would draw in their breaths like pearls on a string, then slink back upwards, stacking her spine back up, vertebrae by vertebrae, singing her song, taking their hearts and souls in her hands, all the while knowing that their money would soon follow.

“En haut,” said the Impresario as he went back to his bar, pretending to clean it, though its copper surface gleamed.

His agent climbed the stairs, his footsteps light, but the Impresario grinned under his heavy moustache. He poured a glass of Beaujolais, and toasted the air.

“Au jeune amour!”

The wine was sweet, and he drank it all with a kindly smile.

\-----

She was waiting for him in her room, pacing like a caged animal, like one of the poor beasts she had seen in the Zoological Society of London, stinking in their tiny enclosures. She was agitated and angry, waiting for him to come back, terrified that there was nothing to do but wait for his word.

Dressed only in her camisole, drawers, and a paisley woollen shawl, she tried not to keen in the back of her throat. She needed to know he was well, that his mission had not failed, but she had given her word not to seek him out.

‘He can’t know,’ she told herself.

The door opened, and one look at his thunderous face told her otherwise. He knew, damn him.

She threw her shawl to the chair behind him, and stalked to him, heedless of protocol or danger.

“Before you begin, know that I am not sorry in the least,” she cried. “Aside from last night’s target, there were three other knaves in the galleries of the Opéra-Comique, and I was not about to let you face them alone!”

She was acutely aware she was ranting to her handler, and in her underwear of all things, but she did not care. She pushed herself forward, the burst of relief at his welfare rising with her anger at being left behind. Her finger went to his chest, where she poked at him in antagonistic fury.

His eyes flashed dangerously, and he tossed his tophat on her dresser, dislodging hair pins, a bottle of perfume, a few earrings, and other feminine trinkets that he cared not to investigate. His blood was boiling, and he watched as her white chest, tantalizing in her little camisole, heaved in her anger.

She was magnificent in her ferocity, and he snarled, readying a reply. She beat him to it.

“I am better with knives than any of the other agents, even better than you! And you know it! My father ensured it, when we travelled with our circus, and if you think for even a moment that I would stay behind like some lady---”

_ Suffisant! _

He wrenched her to him, one hand under her arm, the other at her side, and finally, at long last, he brought her mouth to his, sealing her to him. He had wanted this for so long, and the stress and desire of long months of training, of denial, of self-abnegation finally shattered as he felt her lips open to his.

She had been kissed before, but never like this. The tentative, gentle kisses from the circus blacksmith had never been like this. The sudden rush of blood to her groin exploded her senses, and no, it had never been like this with the blacksmith.

What was this explosion of heat, this crazed desire, that made her blood boil, and her anger stoke to new heights? Was he trying to stopper her mouth with his tongue? She craved it, but wondered if this was just another test of his, another way to silence her, only to humiliate her later. She wriggled in his grasp, trying to pull back, but he grasped his hands behind her head, deepening the kiss, and to her utter shock, she heard his groan.

He was …moaning? He wanted her? Could it be true?

It shattered her hesitation, and she threw her arms around his broad shoulders, relishing his little moans and grunts as he lifted her into his arms. She delighted in feeling the cut of his waist, and pressing herself boldly against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, wanting to feel all of him, she was suddenly unable to do anything but feel, touch, press, and moan in reply.

“Depuis toujours je te voulais,” he panted into her mouth. She giggled, and said, “You must speak in English, for I am still learning French.”

He cursed, and turned to lay her onto her bed, all the while kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat. When he bent over to place her reverently on her bed, he had a moment to examine her in her surroundings. Here at last, he had her, and his eyes softened as though he could scarcely believe what he saw.

The coverlet was a beautiful embroidered piece, brought over from the crossing from England, and underneath the sheets were soft linen. Both were rucked as though she had slept poorly. He quirked an eyebrow at the little wolves he saw embroidered into the linen, and she smiled sadly.

“An old family motto,” she said wistfully.

“You will tell a man later,” he said gently, stroking her face, then pressing a thumb into her mouth. She licked it, and the fires between them roared again. He took her mouth, working to strip her of her garments, and when he had her naked, he looked down at his prize. She was even more beautiful than his imagination had promised she would be, but when he grabbed a pillow to brace under her arse, he laughed to find a wicked blade hiding under the cushion, ready for use.

Her eyes glinted, and he kissed her again, hopelessly in love and ridiculously, helplessly hard under his trousers. Shoving the pillow under her, he set to work on her quim.

She squeaked, and he laughed, kneeling at the foot of her bed. Had he ever been so warm, so deliciously open to another?

Effortlessly, he worked at her pearl, and she moaned as she held his head to her body. She lost all inhibition, not caring if the other agents in the rooms nearby heard them. ‘Let them hear me,’ she thought viciously. ‘Let them know who claims me.’

A thick finger worked into her entrance, and she hissed.

“Tight,” he groaned into her milky thigh, then he crooked a finger gently, working it around and around, stretching her slowly. “Open to me, love.”

She keened as he put his tongue back to work, flicking around her pearl, then hummed as she groaned her pleasure. She panted, shouted, "What are you doing!" and bucked around him, a peak of exquisite pleasure shocking her with its intensity and fierceness. Keening, wailing, not understanding how it was that these sounds, these feelings could come from her body, she stiffened around his finger, holding rigidly around the tongue he slipped across her pearl, again and again. As she slipped down from her high, boneless and huffing, he chuckled, and kissing her pearl again, suckled.

“Oh!” she cried, too sensitive. She tried to wriggle away.

He pushed a second finger in. She groaned, moaning against the sting of intrusion.

“Take it, beautiful girl,” he chided softly. “Open your legs, and let me fuck your quim open. You will like it, a man swears it.”

She was shattering to aftershocks, and she reached down to hold her legs open with both hands. He muttered, “Good girl,” and crooked his fingers upwards, rewarding her with slight pressure.

“Oh!” she cried again, and he said, “This is where a man’s cockstand will fuck into you.” He pressed back and forth, then licked her pearl, letting her feel what he meant.

“It often feels best here when taken from behind, like a beast,” he continued, then laved her pearl, then pressed harder. Her legs began to shiver and shake, as the images poured into her mind, lewd and delicious.

“But a girl is too small for a man,” he said mournfully, a mocking tone now. “Ah well.”

He removed his hands and stood up, and she blinked at him in surprise, her legs open to him and the room, and watched as he idly licked his fingers clean.

“Your taste….magnifique.”

She pushed her legs down, and said in a tremulous voice, “You bastard.”

His eyes glinted, and she stood up from her bed. Her arm cracked back, but he caught it before it could hit his face.

“I will not beg,” she snarled.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “Not tonight.”

They breathed in each other’s faces, and she could smell herself on him. Hesitantly, her wrist still caught in his vice-like grip, she leaned forward, and licked his mouth. She wanted to taste it. Wanted to taste him.

It was enough. He broke again, and without hesitation, he kissed her sweetly. He ran his arms down her body, and broke apart.

“Je suis désolé. Je ne sais pas qui je suis quand je suis avec toi. Tu brises mon âme. Pardonne-moi, jolie fille. S'il te plaît, pardonne-moi, je t'aime tellement.”

He tore the clothing from his body, and laid her back on the bed. She welcomed him with her arms, and whispered endearments into his mouth, his ears, his skin. He licked her breasts, stroked her quim, ran his teeth along her neck, and swirled his fingertips along her pearl. She gasped, writhed, and moaned. It was all he wanted, and he stopped only to take her mouth, again and again, with his own. He craved the connection, facelessness long gone in her arms.

“Give yourself to me,” she grunted, as he lined his cock at her entrance.

“Je suis à vous,” he moaned into her open mouth, and he pushed hard into her, tearing open her maidenhead. She shrieked, but he took that sound too, pressing himself wholly inside, feeling himself nestle against the mouth of her womb.

“Oh,” she whined, huffing through the pain. Her eyes were tightly shut.

He stared down at her, and saw her gritting her teeth. He lifted his chest from hers, and thumbed the tears away from her eyes. Never had he felt like a worse lover, like some green boy, fumbling through the dark like some virgin idiot. He was a fool.

He kissed her lips gently, murmuring his love and adoration to her. He stroked her hair, moving not at all inside of her, no matter how his balls twitched, and every second felt like fire along his back. He was willing to wait forever, until she unclenched and was ready.

Nothing else mattered. Only her.

After a few moments, or maybe a lifetime of love for one as starved as him, she opened her grey eyes, and staring into his light brown gaze, she smiled.

He felt suddenly shy, like he was the virgin, and she was the debauching, experienced lover.

Her hands came up his sides, and his muscles rippled with pleasure. It had been so long. He groaned as she kissed him, and she moaned in reply as he gently, hesitantly, moved inside of her.

“God…. you are….enormous…,” she said to the rhythm of his careful strokes.

He was but a man. His ego swelled in appreciation.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, concerned.

“Y..yes….,” she admitted. Then she lifted her legs up to entwine his waist, and with a naughty twinkle in her eyes, she said, “I…think….oh heavens…that it’s getting…oh there….please there again….better…..”

He set to work, lifting her legs carefully, sitting back to enjoy her expressions, and to show her exactly what he had meant by hitting his cockstand on the roof of her quim.

“Right there,” he had said, watching his cock leaving her soaked cunny, thinking it the finest sight in all of Paris. She writhed, then sung out after he licked a thumb, then applied it to her pearl, all the while taunting her.

“Look at Arya Stark, about to come all over a big French cock,” he said with malicious pleasure, as though he weren’t on the edge himself. “What would her proper English papa say now?”

She had bucked harder, and he grinned, flicking right over the top of her pearl.

“All stretched out now,” he continued. “Creamy too. Next time, a man will take your pretty arse, and put his fist in your quim, stuff it all in, and a lovely girl will take it,” he growled, shoving harder now, “take it now,” he pushed harder, “come now!”

Her eyes had screwed up with pleasure and she had screamed so hard, bringing him over with her, that the agent in the room next to them had shouted, “Opa!” and they had both giggled as they both came down from their highs.

Slumped over her, twitching in her, she had groaned and curled her arms and legs tighter around him.

“Stay… with me?” she panted in his ear, shifting slightly so that she could breathe around his heavy weight.

He lifted his hair away from her mouth, and looked into her eyes. He tried to find the facelessness within him, and couldn’t. Her visage was too open, too trusting. He dipped his mouth to hers, gently coaxing her lips open.

“Yes,” he said, finding himself condemned by her ruthless vulnerability.

Her cunt twitched around his softening cock, and he sighed, admitting defeat. He had not expected downfall to feel so sweet.

Downstairs, they heard the sounds of the opening act at Le Chat Noir, but the two agents paid no attention as they began to drift asleep, the smells of their lovemaking spilling out from between their legs, joining the Parisian air, and drifting out into the night.


	3. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This started out as 600 words and bloomed to 3158. *facepalm*
> 
> Someone please explain to me how to drabble, because clearly I can't do it to save my life.
> 
> This chapter is definitely Teen/Mature themed only. (I can't believe I didn't write smut!)

‘We were never equals, not until I walked away,’ she thinks to herself as she strides onto the boat taking her far away from Westeros. It’s an interesting parallel that runs through her mind as she makes her away from all she’s ever known.

She puts aside her pre-assigned role as a lady of a great House, except as a tool to get her a ship bedecked in the colours and sigil of her family. Direwolves now prowl the Sunset Sea in the form of colourful stitching on sails and paint upon shields, but the warg-blood coursing through her veins connects her to one of the real, ancient wolves of old.

_Nymeria hunts. She and her pack rip open the bellies of men and beasts, whatever comes into the Wolfswood, where they have moved following the trail of the girl, now a woman who bleeds. When she is finally sated, thick blood painting her muzzle, she looks through the eyes of the woman she once protected. She sees endless water, a cloudy sky, and recoils, remembering the last time the woman undertook such a journey. She howls mournfully at a nearly ripened full moon. It isn’t right for a wolf to be caged by water! The massive direwolf paces uneasily that night in the forest, unable to lay her great head to rest even with her belly full for the first time in over a week. She is restless, and her pack stays close, looking for enemies near and far, but scenting none in the air. Through the girl-now-a-woman, Nymeria smells brine in the air, and howls._

Locked in her cabin, Arya growls and twitches, making whimpering sounds, and the men posted outside her door exchange worried glances, but say nothing. Early in the War of the Five Kings, they heard the whispers from those who called Lord Robb Stark the Young Wolf, claiming he could actually turn into a direwolf, and that he couldn’t be killed. Just as they’d started to believe it, he’d died ignobly at the Red Wedding, and that had been the end of their suspicions about Starks and direwolves.

But then what was with all the little dog-like yips and whines? Some nights the mistress makes scratching sounds and howls like a beast is with her. They are both survivors of the Long Night, and independently, they decide to shut their mouths. They owe Arya Stark their very lives – their afterlives even – and so they keep their watch, swearing to themselves to keep this secret, whatever it is, to their graves and beyond.

And so when a cloaked and hooded man appears in front of them in the cool night air and says, “Gentlemen, a pleasant evening. A man must speak with your mistress,” it is unsurprising that neither are inclined to acquiesce to his request.

He hears the sounds of her warging, and smiles.

“Ah,” he says, inclining his head, and from the mottled grey hood there are red and white strands that appear strangely muted in the moonlight. “A mistress is with her wolf. And she is agitated. A man can help.” He moves to open the cabin door, and two swords are instantly at his throat.

His hands go up and his smile is disarming, gentle and charming. White teeth flash like pearls in the light of the lanterns that gently sway on the deck.

“A man may disarm the gentlemen,” he says quietly. “But that would only draw more attention, yes? Or, a man may simply say that he means Arya Stark no harm, knows that she is with her wolf, and is very unhappy. He seeks only to calm, to soothe. One should come inside with a man, to ensure no harm will befall the mistress. Yes?”

The men consider this, and hear another howl from her cabin. They look behind the strange man and see that the sailors are trying not to appear alarmed, but are doing a piss poor job of it. They are casting long looks over their shoulders, past the three of them and towards the mistress' cabin, and none of the looks are friendly. Some are downright hostile.

It was not easy for their mistress to find a crew willing to sail beyond the edges of the known world. Sailors were superstitious creatures at the best of times. Many had turned down the very thought of the voyage by claiming the seas beyond certain points were cursed, and any who sailed past those edges would be damned for spitting in the eyes of the gods. Some laughed in her face and asked if she was already insane, for if not, the trip would ensure it, along with all who sailed with her. Only the promise of gold before and after the journey had secured a hardy vessel and an experienced, if wary, crew.

The mistress’ voice is neither muffled nor particularly quiet on a calm night as tonight. She is drawing too much attention to herself. No doubt, this is what brought the stranger to the cabin door.

One guard stares at him, and taking the blade tightly in a fist, says, “Any trouble at all, and I will gut you, throat to belly, and let the sea take you.”

The man inclines his head, and together they walk into the cabin, one guard closing the door and continuing to keep watch, the other with a blade by the strange man’s neck.

‘He walks like a noble,’ the guard thinks to himself.

The man approaches the mistress, where she’s rucked up her linen sheets on the ship’s small bed. She’s twitching, her mouth in a small frown. Her eyes are open and pure white, and the guard gasps, nearly losing the grip he has on his sword.

The man turns to him and smiles.

“Hold the sword tighter, friend,” he says. “Like so.”

In a move too quick to follow, he’s suddenly around and behind the guard, both hands around the blade’s hilt, and the sword is at the guard’s throat.

“A man could give the gift now, if he were so inclined,” he murmurs very quietly into the guard’s ear. “But that is not a man’s purpose tonight. A man has come many steps, many years, to get to this moment, for one reason alone. Can a guard guess why?”

The guard is breathing heavily, and sweat is pouring down his neck. He doesn’t want to die. The man’s grip is hard as Valeryan steel, and the sword at his throat is very sharp. He would know; he is the one who honed it just this afternoon.

“You’re here to kill my Lady Stark.” It’s whispered against the stillness of the cabin.

The man hisses and tightens himself against the guard. It’s a negative sound, and the guard swallows hard. The motion nicks his skin against his own blade. He makes a whining sound, and Arya mutters on the bed. She was ever a light sleeper.

“You’re here… to help my Lady Stark?”

The man is very still then. The moment stretches into eternity for the guard, who wonders if he’s made the last mistake he’ll ever make. From the time he swore himself in fealty to House Stark, at the feet of Eddard Stark himself, to this moment, he had always known that one day, he might have to give his blood in service to their House.

He had just never thought it’d be like this. He closes his eyes, and waits for the cut that will fulfil his vow.

It never comes. The man releases him, and the suddenness almost causes him to trip forward onto his knees. He turns, and finds the man is holding his blade to him, hilt first.

“This man will not harm Arya Stark.” It is said in a normal tone of voice, and by shattering the silence, the inevitable happens.

Arya scrambles to her feet, knives in both hands, the white in her eyes only just fading like smoke in a breeze as she looks for her target. The guard is staring at her, incredulous and terrified, when the other man tackles him, throwing him to the floor as Arya’s blades fly. It is a miracle that they miss – or she lets it happen, realising only at the last moment that she does not want to kill one of her own men.

“Arya!” and “M’lady!” come the muffled sounds from the floor, as both men try simultaneously to free themselves from each other’s limbs and stand up.

The other guard comes crashing in, and it’s a real party now as Arya Stark stands in the cabin’s dim lantern lights, clad in linen breeches and one of Robb’s old tunics. She is clambering over to her weapons for Needle and more knives.

The man with red and white hair – now fully visible as the hood of his cloak has been tossed back and he just _grins_ at her while the two guards take their blades to offensive positions. In return, he makes a beautiful bow to Arya, as perfect as any she has seen by a noble in the court at King’s Landing, better even than her father performed.

She grinds her teeth at the sight of all that beautiful red and white hair, cascading in waves in front of her. He looks up, a smirk on his handsome face.

She takes up Needle, ready to ram it home this time.

“Ah, lovely woman,” he says, chidingly as he stands up again. “Does she really wish to kill a man before hearing what he has to say?”

“Say it quickly, and then die,” she says tightly, ignoring the new nickname as she aims Needle at his black heart. Or somewhere it should be.

“What’s west of Westeros?” he asks softly. “Essos is east, Westeros is west… but what’s west of Westeros?”

She stares at him, and he knows he has her.

“Lady Crane,” she breathes. “That was you?”

He looks at her, truly looks at her, and says, “And if it was? What then?”

The guards look confused, but the two ignore them, continuing their strange conversation as though no one is in the room. Just the two of them.

“If she… if that was you, then you know how injured I was. What your sister did,” she spat at him. He says nothing.

“Your cooking is terrible,” she continues.

“She was a healer and a player, not a cook,” he replies evenly.

She remembers how quickly she healed, and thinks of the fight the next day. The way she ran for her life, and her composure breaks. She thinks of the crumpled, lifeless body of Lady Crane when she woke up, calling for a woman who never replied, and she says, “So your sister had already killed her?”

He answers, as ever, with another question, the infuriating bastard.

“What does a beautiful woman think?”

She refuses to be affected by another new nickname and says, “I think that you’ll say anything if it means getting out of here alive.”

His face hardens for just a moment in the lantern light, just before slipping into a mask of careless devil-may-care attitude that, for once, doesn’t fool her at all. She runs through the painful memories of her last days in Braavos again, and the moments click into brutal clarity.

“She did,” she breathes, her eyes widening as she begins to believe it with the pieces of a fragile, long broken heart. “You knew I probably wouldn’t do it, but that maybe given more time, or the right incentive, I might have. But then she forced your hand by doing it instead. And that there were no more second chances.”

His face is impassive now, but she’s seen through that mask of lies. She's seen better liars than him, killed Littlefinger himself, and this mask is suddenly a joke. It's paper thin.

“And then you found me bleeding…”

She almost laughs in triumph as he flinches - actually flinches! So much for Facelessness. The guards, having finally heard something about bleeding and their mistress that makes some kind of sense, stiffen. Swords come back up, but Arya’s knives have come down. She looks at them and motions to them, “Stand down. He’s no threat to me. Well, that’s not quite right… just. Go away. For now.”

They look entirely incapable of following this order until she orders them again, with more force and reassurances that she is indeed safe and will be fine, and they will be rewarded for their discretion.

Then she asks for wine and food, if any can be had at the late hour. They look entirely put out by not being given the honour to gut the strange man and lay him at her feet, but they console themselves with the task of at least being able to bring her something to soothe her throat and belly.

She feels starved, as though her stomach had been full, and is now empty. Her throat is scratchy as though she has been crying for hours.

“Why are you here?” she says once the food and wine are laid out, and they are sitting at the tiny table and seats of her cabin. She drinks half of the wine from her goblet, feeling parched, then eats gingerly from her plate of salt pork and sea biscuits.

“A woman and a man have unfinished business,” he says, as he takes a drink from her glass, then drains it. He has not touched his own.

She is chilled. Tries to cover it up by asking, “Where?”

“Here.”

He places his goblet of wine between them, and she stares at it as though it is an oracle. He nibbles on the handful of pickled olives. They are three weeks into the voyage, but if they are careful with their supplies, they should reach the Emerald Isle in another month, and be able to restock before continuing westward. Towards the unknown.

“And what is here?”

There is a small pause as he finishes his olives and takes his goblet up.

Looking into her eyes, he offers a sign of trust. He sips from it, then presents it to her with both of his hands, not letting her take it from him. It looks like a ritual, one that she is not familiar with, but his eyes are serious. There is no mirth hidden in the golden brown depths. There is no trick being played here.

“What indeed,” he says with that voice that has always wrapped around her core like a velvet ribbon. That voice and those eyes made her want to follow him from the only land and people she’d ever known, and cross the Narrow Sea. To wander foolhardily into Essos with only a single coin to her name. A coin simultaneously worthless and priceless, muttering strange phrases to perfect strangers until she found those eyes and that voice again.

She stares into his eyes and wonders now what he is offering.

“And if I drink, will I end up dead, taken by Him of Many Faces?”

He snorts, and a small smirk plays around his lips.

“Taken? Perhaps. If a lovely woman asks very nicely. But not by the god.”

She blushes and fights the reaction, narrowing her eyes.

“And if I don’t drink?”

“A man also admits to a certain curiosity about boundaries,” he says with patience. She is instantly aware of the double-talk, and lets her hand wander over.

Two long years, and suddenly her hands are over his. She wonders if he can feel the sword callouses over her palms. She can feel the ridges of his knuckles, and her pulse kicks up.

His eyes twinkle, but he says nothing.

She lets one hand go, and he lets the corresponding side drop as well. When did he decide to mirror her? What game is this?

Now they each have one hand on opposite sides of the goblet, and he is about to let go to allow her to take it completely before she calls out.

“Do not move.”

He doesn’t move. 'Faceless training is truly thorough,' she notes to herself.

“Balance,” she says. “In this, and in everything. Can you offer me this?”

His eyebrows knit closely together, and she looks down at the wine goblet.

“I gave you wine. You took mine and drank it down, leaving me with nothing. Now you offer what I gave you back to me, but if I take it, what are you left with?”

She looks back up at him and shakes her head.

“I want more.”

He’s back to being Faceless, and she is beginning to understand. This is how he hides when he is unsure. This is who he is when he does not understand the rules of a game he has not set.

“Lift it with me, on three. One…two…”

To her surprise, he complies. On three, they lift. It is awkward because there are no handles. It takes pressure on both sides, but they manage it.

She smiles, and she says, “Me first. You drank all my wine, thief. On three? One, two, three.”

Moving together, they bring the goblet to her lips. He watches as they gently, carefully, let her drink from the goblet. It spills only a little from her lips, and she laughs as together they pull back, trying not to make a mess over her tunic, which has slipped off one white shoulder, showing a ribbon of pink scars that he _should not be staring at_ but he is, oh he is.

“Thirsty?” she asks, completely unaware of how hard he has suddenly become under the little table. He’s struggling to ignore that and keep his side of the goblet from tipping over and spilling all the red wine over her. He is _unmanned_ for the first time in too many years to remember. Unmoored by this small slip of a woman he now calls a _lovely woman_. This woman who may have saved them all, at least for now, if the outrageous stories are true, and she’s pushing the goblet towards him so that he can drink again from the same cup.

He feels somehow ashamed, feels he isn’t worthy, feels that her guards are more worthy than he, for at least they are sworn to her, while he is not. He is _no one_, and she is the Wolf of the Dawn.

He sips, and it is harder than it looks, accepting the pressure of her fingers on the cup as he drinks. For the first time in many years, a tiny amount dribbles out of his mouth too, and he pushes back; she laughs, knowingly, and he has to wipe his mouth, trying in vain to save face.

‘A Faceless Man, saving face,’ he thinks to himself with wonder.

And the sparkle of joy in her grey eyes is so bright that he thinks he will do anything to put it there again and again, whatever it takes, as together they bring the empty goblet down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by recent comments between Griftings and me about imbalance between Jaqen and Arya. I wanted to write something whereby they meet again, but the imbalance is addressed immediately. It occurred to me that Jaqen is never going to be the one to address it out loud (though I think he'd angst about it in his head plenty), but perhaps Arya would go for a metaphor.
> 
> I played it fast and loose with the Lady Crane storyline. I really hated what D&D did to the Waif and Ayra there. They basically admitted that they thought it was better to pit two girls against each other because "women can't get along" rather than let Arya learn from the Waif and let Arya commit her first assassination the way she does in the books. Ridiculous. 
> 
> I also wanted Jaqen to stop calling Arya 'girl'. She's a woman damnit, and I believe he'd recognise her as such the next time he saw her. Especially after she saved the world.
> 
> I also like the idea of him sneaking on board her ship heading to the west as a stowaway.
> 
> Bonus points for anyone picking out the (rather obvious, I think) easter egg.


	4. Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated T. 754 words.

"Has it ever occurred to you that your Faceless training is just manipulative, gaslighting, patriarchal, _bullshit_ that some asshole from Old Valyria thought up because he got turned down one too many times by a female dragonlord who knew exactly who she was, and owned that shit?"

His eyes blink open and he pauses for a moment, unable to continue with his deep, cleansing breaths. He doesn't normally engage in discussion during meditation, but one cannot silence another's thoughts. Or another's pretty, pithy mouth, for that matter.

In the depths of an ancient chamber deep in the ruins of Moat Cailin, near their bedrolls and the remains of a campfire and dinner, he sighs, his concentration broken. Irritation bleeds through his voice, and he winces. He adds another quarter candlemark to the end of his meditation as penance.

"Clarify."

"When you were my Master, you made me question my memory, perception, and sanity. You lied, contradicted me whenever I thought I had a handle on what was going on, and constantly made me wonder if what I saw in the House was real or just some elaborate show. I never knew from one day to the next if it was really you, or some other priest. I still don't know if you're the same Jaqen I met in Harrenhal, or just someone wearing his face."

He looks ahead, saying nothing. His face is carved of stone, and just as impassive. She's seen statues with more expression.

"You took my eyes when I didn't do exactly what you wanted."

He snorts.

"Stealing the gift meant for another is not the same as pilfering a biscuit. Proportional response, lovely girl." His lips uptick in the dancing light, and she lets out a string of curses. They are long and inventive. 'I'll give you a proportional response,' she thinks, and he winces to think of how difficult some of those sexual positions might be, and how painful, as she continues to vent her spleen.

"The removal of my eyes, disorientation and grinding away of my identity, leaving with me nothing but abject dependency upon you and your order, which incidentally seems to be almost entirely male... though I think you would look quite fetching as a woman. Care to demonstrate?"

He slides his eyes over to hers, and the look is positively predatory. Heat and anticipation slither down her back, and she knows she plays with fire. She wants more of it.

"Does a girl imply that a man does not understand what it means to be vulnerable, helpless, and alone? To be reduced to ashes until there is nothing left but an empty vessel, waiting to be filled?"

"Yes, I do. You're such a typical male. You think I was asking to be filled?"

Teeth flash, a quick and knowing grin. 'Insufferable ass,' she flushes in the firelight.

"With power, yes." He sounds so smug. 

"Male power. Facelessness." She grits her teeth. Everything she had suffered had been for her House. For her revenge. If it meant stealing it from men in power, she'd do it.

"To be Faceless is to be neither male or female." This argument is one she'd expected. Her reply is swift.

"Then where are all your women? Why just the Waif?"

He sighs and shrugs. "Bodies are just meat. We choose what we find comfortable, and some prefer what they remember, before they became empty. Others choose as they will."

She is unconvinced. She leans back and says, "Then why choose to be men?" She knows when she asks that it sounds hollow. She had wanted all her life to be one of her brothers. Not to stop being herself, but to wake up in a man's body, so that certain doors of the world would not be barred to her.

He looks at her then, and says quietly, "If a girl could choose to be herself, or a man, or anything in between, what would she choose? If she had stayed, completed her training under this man's tutelage, she could have had the ability to become no one.... and anyone. What would she choose?"

Arya had asked herself this question many times, and looking into his golden eyes, she answered it as truly as she knew how.

"I would want the Faceless power, all of it, without any repercussions or restraints. And I would want to be myself."

He nodded, and returned facing forward, his breathing returning to its deep rhythms, seeking the flow of meditation.

"Just so," he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fucking drabble at last! Thoughts on where I am on Imposter Syndrome right now. It's a head-fuck-and-a-half.


	5. Shieling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit. 1200 words. Let's get back to #dickoff2019

The small stone and turf hut had been abandoned, but its location had clearly been carefully chosen by its original occupant. It was tucked away in a hillside, sheltered from the harsh prevailing winds, and close to a clear running stream. Like all shieling huts, it was far away from the war-decimated crofting villages whose farmers tended their flocks in the high summer pastures, only coming down to the crofting village in the harsh winters. Whoever its present owner was, they wouldn't be returning during the winter, and crucially, it was far away from the prying eyes of House Blackwood and those sworn to them.

It was a full month of travel from Winterfell, and on the doorstep to the Wolfswood. Every step would take her further away from the North, ever closer towards a ship sailing West and the future of exploration that beckoned her forth, but something about the shieling had compelled her to stop. Something about the sad sloping of its stone walls and the proud angle of its roof timbers, still intact, lead her to consider re-thatching the roof as quickly as possible, before the heavy snows set in. To rethink her idea of sailing. To light a fire in the tiny hearth, and to consider living wild, hunting in the forest and living off the land. Like a direwolf, wild and free.

She had compromised. One night only. That had been a week ago.

They had lit a fire in front of one of the remaining walls, arranged themselves so that the heat would bounce forward and behind them, maximising the warmth. Their dinner was another snared rabbit and boiled vegetables made delicious by some of his Braavosi spices and infernal cooking magic, the secrets of which he refused to divulge. 

Then he had rucked up their sleeping furs and pushed into her deep and full, his body warm and hands caressing her shoulder blades and her sides as his palms drifted up and down her back. She had pressed back insistently, needing more of his touch, reaching behind her in the warmth of the firelight and the shadows, and his grip had answered around her wrists. 

Then he jerked her hard, pulling her up onto her knees, pushing her hard into his lap. 

“Like this, leaning forward,” he instructed, his voice devoid of emotion, as though he was faceless again. She tried to turn her head to look, but he snarled, his control absolute, and he fucked himself into her waiting warmth, his hard shaft spearing the length of her. She pitched forward, her mouth dropping open in a gasp, and her arms were splayed out behind her, her wrists caught securely in his fists as he pistoned up and down behind her opened legs, her knees splaying open more and more fully by the second as he worked in and out of her.

She began to tremble, her legs becoming unstable as the waves of pleasure built.

“Not yet,” he hissed behind her. He slowed down, and watched with almost sadistic satisfaction as she moaned in frustration, wriggling almost uncontrollably for a few seconds as he stretched back a bit on his thighs, enjoying the way his cock was being sucked in by her warm, drenched pussy. 

“Pleeeaase,” she lamented. He took pity on her, his beautiful lover, and he landed on his back, stretching his legs forward, allowing her hands to fall by her side. He gripped her hips, settling her securely on his cock. She squirmed on him, squeaking a bit as his girth reached all the way to the entrance of her womb. Then she began to bounce, and he watched her perfect arse, mesmerised by the play of her powerful muscles of her back and shoulders, battle-scarred and still recovering from recent wounds. 

How he loved to see her move. How he was a master at making her move more. 

His fingers stole over her arse, gripping and pulling at the beautiful muscles, then sneaked in to play at the little ring of nerves at her back entrance.

“Jaqen!” she cried, looking over her shoulder again. He gave her a lazy grin, and she thought she saw a purple sheen in his eyes. It must have been the firelight. Then he bucked hard into her, disrupting her rhythm, but causing that glorious little squeak to erupt from her astonished mouth. She was blushing. He liked that look, craved that sound, and so he did it again, and twice more again, all the while circling around her asshole, staring into her grey eyes before she closed them, her teeth closing over her bottom lip in a sensuous display of erotic denial of delight in what he was doing to her.

She was tightening on his cock when he snuck his other hand to her clit, then pressed his fingers gently on her anus, giving her a subtle pressure that he knew she craved with embarrassment and would furiously blush about in the morning. He rubbed and flickered in circles around her clit, and she began to flutter around him, her body bowing.

“Fuck this fortunate man harder, lovely girl. Let this privileged man hear you when you come on his cock.”

She was helpless to his command. Her legs shifted, and her movements became sharper, then erratic. Suddenly, she shattered, her screams coming in waves with the blinding white pleasure that exploded behind her eyes. Her hips convulsed around his thighs, clamping hard as she rode him, and he hissed as his eyes rolled back, his own pleasure taking him as he emptied himself into her. Her hands clawed at the front of his thighs, looking for something to grab onto for balance, as she moaned through the convulsions that tore through her body.

He had the presence of mind to grab her before she could topple forward, his cock briefly dislodging from her body. Throwing her onto her back, he shoved himself roughly back in, his mouth sealing onto hers, both of them incapable of anything other than rough grunts and sighs as their bodies continued to grind and rock against each other for a few more precious seconds, his cock filling her and her cunt wringing the pleasure out of them both until they could take no more.

He held her close, and she tucked her face under his chin, relishing the feeling of being held by his larger body. For once, she did not lament her smaller frame, did not actively covet his larger muscles and the murderous power they could inflict. She simply basked in the feeling of his protection, of being in his power and territory. Instinctively, she put her teeth to the thick flesh of his neck and bit down, sucking hard to leave a bruise.

“Cease!” he cried, trying to pull away, but she refused him, suckling harder and keeping him trapped around her legs at his waist. At last her lips popped away, and then she cuddled under his chin again, satisfied to have left her mark on him. 

He sighed and moved her hair away, kissing her forehead gently.

“Wolfgirl,” he muttered in the language of his homeland, High Valyrian, but she was not to know that. 

She was already asleep.


End file.
